Love, Ziva
by Mechabeira
Summary: "He'd gotten photos and notes before, a card on his birthday, a watercolor of Masada that won Liana an art-fair ribbon. They'd been signed 'The DiNozzos' or 'Ziva' or 'Your Granddaughter...'" Oneshot. A/U. Part of the "Treading Water" series.


**Greetings from Babyland. I know I'm supposed to be on hiatus (second baby arrived), but I couldn't help myself. Also those 3am feedings are prime time for writing.**

**Happy Thanksgiving. I'm grateful to you and to my beta Amilyn.**

. . . .

A new Deputy Director, a new Mossad Headquarters, a new white envelope stamped _par avion_. In it, a single photo—black-and-white, candid but professional. Ziva and Liana curled together, smiling. A tumble of dark hair, eyelashes, straight, white, American teeth. There was no note. Inscribed on the back—_Summer, 2014. Love, Ziva_.

_Love, Ziva._

He'd gotten photos and notes before, a card on his birthday, a watercolor of Masada that won Liana an art-fair ribbon. They'd been signed _The DiNozzos or Ziva_ or _Your Granddaughter, Liana_.

_Love, Ziva._

He closed the front door with a _clunk_, flicked on the light, and stood for a long time in the living room, listening to his breath, listening to the upstairs neighbors scrape dinner plates and herd their child off to bed.

He looked around; low divan, bookshelves, a rug purchased in the _souk_, Rivka's dusty silver candlesticks. The dining table where he never ate, the kitchen where he never cooked, the bedroom doors he never opened. All the contents went untouched except in for the week before Pesach, when a hired girl cleaned for _chametz_.

Shrines, they were. _Avodah zara. _Prohibited by Jewish law, but he just—

He was still holding the photograph.

_Love, Ziva_.

Her room was the one with the ocean view. He teased the door open. The upstairs neighbor girl—four, blonde, French—sang herself to sleep. Eli held his breath until it softened and then stopped.

_Laila tov_.

Had he ever said that? Had he ever poked his head in from the hallway and found her smiling from the pillow, her hair braided for the night? Had she carried a blanket or a bear? Did she play with dolls? He looked, but nothing in that room held the answers.

Because there was simply nothing in the room.

No picture books, no early novels, no _tchotchkes_. No stuffed animals, no dolls. No prayer book from her _Chagigat Siddur_, no gilt-bound bible from her _Chagigat Chumash_. No posters, no television, no radio. There was a single mathematics textbook on the nightstand, a single hairbrush on the dresser, one pillow on the narrow bed. The blankets were soft but ordinary, the rug another nondescript _souk_ purchase.

He opened the closet: two school uniforms, two thin Shabbat blouses, two simple cotton skirts. A pair of dress shoes, a pair of sandals, a pair of trainers.

"Is this all?" he asked aloud.

What if he woke the little French girl?

Eli backed up and sat heavily on the trunk, feeling old. Feeling _fat_: the lid sagged under his ample behind.

The _trunk_.

He got up.

The key was still on his key ring, the pins eager to open. He lifted the lid, shuffled the contents: a stuffed bear, a blanket, a shelf-worn copy of _Laila Tov, Yare'ach_. Two black leotards, three pairs of pink tights, three pairs of pink ballet slippers. Two were well-worn, the third smooth and still bearing the price tag. 100NIS. Had he complained about the expense?

He put it all back and stood, weighed the padlock in his hand. He hadn't waited for her to get up from _shiva_ before locking her childhood away. The warm Tel Aviv night pressed down all around him. He almost buckled.

"I did this," he said aloud. "I did this."

And he still held the photograph.

_Love, Ziva_.

He shifted, leaned on the dresser, looked around again at the ordinary headboard, the empty shelves. No A-papers, no attendance awards, no art-fair ribbons.

"But you did well," he argued.

So had Tali. Her walls were still plastered with teacher's notes, report cards, practice _bagrut _examination scores. Pop stars, snapshots, a chart of English curse words.

The walls in Ziva's room were bare. Where were her prizes for martial arts and marksmanship? Hadn't he pinned medals on her lapel?

The desk, maybe. He rifled through the top drawer—pencils, blue _machberot_ with her name on the covers, a slide rule, a stack of English vocabulary flash cards. The second drawer was empty. The third was so full it jammed.

Invitations.

_Mr. and Mrs. Shimon Almo would be pleased to have you join them as their son, Yaakov Baruch, is called to the Torah as a Bar Mitzvah—_

_With joy and love we invite you to join us as our son Elad is called to the Torah—_

Yaakov Almo, Re'ut Finkelstein, Yonit Amitai, Berel Barash, Shmuel Rubenstein. Elad Weiss. _Parshat Noach, Lech Lecha, Vayeira, Chayyei Sara_. She would've been gone every Shabbat for weeks…

...except her mother had died and Jewish laws of mourning did not permit party attendance. At the bottom of the drawer a note: _Dear Papa, may I go to Shmuel Rubenstein's bar mitzvah? I promise to come home before the dancing. Love, Ziva._

_Love, Ziva_.

Eli put them all back. He'd never seen the note. She'd never gone to Shmuel's bar mitzvah. She'd never gone to _any_ bar mitzvahs. She hadn't even asked.

He thought about all the Saturdays of that miserable year. How she cooked for guests, served, cleaned up, bathed Tali, read to her, tucked her into bed. How after Shabbat she baked for the week or washed dishes or did laundry, all without saying a single word. Not _pass the milk_, not _change the channel__. _Nothing.

One night he'd asked _what are you doing?_ as she moved the iron over one of his shirts. Five were pressed and hung on hangers.

_I'm almost finished_, she'd said.

And he said, _it's Saturday night_, meaning all of her classmates were at the Dizengoff Center, or Caffé Aroma, or the pizza place on the promenade.

And Ziva had only looked at him with that dark, even gaze and said _I know_.

Come morning seven starched shirts hung in his closet.

The next week he'd tried to give her money. Twenty shekels, or thirty, enough for a coffee or a piece of pizza. She'd taken it with a quiet _toda_, but finished his shirts and retreated to her room before the nightly news came on. No light came from under the door. He'd woken her before dawn to swim twenty kilometers.

Eli backed out of the room and closed the door. He held the photograph close to his face, studied his daughter's mouth and nose, her eyes, the hand that held her daughter's.

_Love, Ziva._

Nine pm IST. Two o'clock in the afternoon EST. He went to the kitchen, picked up the landline's old-fashioned handset, and dialed. Two rings and then _hello_?

She sounded so sweet.

"Ziva? Ziva, _zeh papa shel'ach_."

Silence.

"Ziva? _B'seder_?"

"I am fine."

He sighed. "I received the photograph. Thank you. It's beautiful."

"Is that why you're calling?"

Was it? "Ziva, what happened after your mother died?"

"You tell me."

Eli rubbed his neck, his face, his chest. Bile rose in his esophagus. "May I come see you, Ziva?"

"You cannot stay here."

"I will get a hotel. Please. I would like to speak to you in person."

"When?"

"I will leave tonight."

"Is something wrong?"

He heard it—a tiny hint of panic. A shred of tenderness. Was it the last one? "I am not ill, I am . . . dissatisfied. I would like to speak with you."

"Dissatisfied with me."

"No!" he said quickly. He felt her reel away from him. "No, nothing like that."

"I read in _HaAretz_ that Gvaryahu was sworn in today. How was that for you?"

He was a man of glass. "May I come, please?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

He heard her swallow. "Goodnight, Papa."

_Love, Ziva_.

He closed his eyes. "Goodnight."

. . . .

Eli rang the bell at half-past ten, holding dahlias in one hand and a box of gourmet teas in the other. Ziva answered wearing a lacy sundress the color of pistachios and flat leather sandals. There was a tiny pinch in her brows, but her face was otherwise blank.

"Hello," he said. "May I come in?"

She moved aside. He stepped in and offered the gifts. "For you."

She put them in her lap. "Would you like some coffee?"

He folded his hands, gave a little bow of appreciation. "Please."

She went to the kitchen, laid the gifts on the counter, and poured him a mug of black coffee from a glass carafe. He took it with both hands. "Thank you."

"Sit," she commanded, and went to the dining table.

He sat next to her. Birds dove outside the kitchen window. A breeze swayed the rose bushes. Otherwise—

"Where is everyone?"

She frowned. "Tony is at work. Liana is at a friend's house."

"And Gibbs?"

She softened, like always. "I sent him home."

He looked down into his coffee cup. "Thank you."

"It was not for you."

He said nothing.

She studied him before speaking again. "Gvaryahu was sworn in yesterday. I read it in _HaAretz_."

"I wish him much success in the field."

"Did they force you out?"

He chose his words carefully. "I held that position for a long time and never realized it came with a terrible price."

Ziva blinked, touched her right hand to her left collarbone. "Yes."

"What happened after your mother died?"

She flinched. "You tell me."

Eli folded his hands around his cup. "I went to your old room last night. I never touched anything in there—did I ever tell you that?"

"No."

He took a sip and swallowed. The coffee would sour his stomach. "Not that it mattered—there was nothing in there, Ziva. There was _nothing _in your bedroom except in the trunk that..."

She stared at him, eyes blank, mouth a thin, red slash.

"I took your things from you."

She nodded slowly, eyes roving over his face. Her voice was so soft. "I know."

"I didn't even wait for you to get up from _shiva_. I went to your room after the housekeeper left and I locked away your childhood."

"You did."

He looked at her hands. They did not open or close fully. Her little finger was permanently tucked beside its neighbor. "I am sorry, Ziva."

She put her hands in her lap. "You came here to apologize for taking my toys?"

"And your ballet shoes. I found them. The pair you never wore. Did I complain about—"

Ziva simply stared at him. A tiny crease formed in her chin.

He nodded. "You never said anything. You never...I remember one night, perhaps six months after...it was Saturday night. You had cooked for Shabbat, and served the guests—"

"_Your _guests."

"...and cleaned up, and put Tali to bed, and then you pressed my shirts. A week's worth."

"Manya did not come after Shabbat. Someone had to do it."

"You were thirteen years old," he continued. "And I remember looking at you and thinking _she looks like an old woman_. I couldn't let that be. I sent my laundry out after that."

Ziva paused, frowning. "I thought I'd done them wrong. You gave me money once. Why?"

"I was hoping you would go eat pizza and flirt with a boy."

"I did not."

"But you took the money."

"I thought it was for Tali. I bought her _Bamba_ and ice cream."

_"_I found the invitations."

She rolled her eyes. "Are we going to do this all day?"

"I found the note, Ziva. You wanted to go."

She pursed her mouth, gave a tiny shake of her head. Her voice was thin when she spoke again. "Until I realized I had nothing to wear."

"I would've taken you shopping for a new dress, but you never said anything. I mean that, Ziva—you never said _anything_."

Her gaze wandered to his hands, his face, the wall behind his head. "I was twelve years old. My mother had been murdered and my father... What was there to say?"

He sighed. She folded her hands. There was a deep scar at the base of her right thumb and many smaller, shallower ones all over both of her hands and wrists.

He brushed his finger over the largest one. "This is from your Beretta. I knew it was too heavy for you. But what are the rest of those?"

She did not pull away. "They are IV scars."

"So many needles?"

"I was there for three months initially, and many shorter visits after."

"I did not realize that."

She only shrugged. "You never asked."

He was a terrible father.

Ziva swallowed delicately. "There is much that I do not remember from that time, but the look of revulsion on your face will stay with me forever."

"It was not _you_," he sputtered, humiliated and ashamed. He felt ugly. Vile. "It was never _you_. It's that it was my fault, Ziva. All of it. And I could not..."

She waited for him to look up. "Had you stayed I would have forgiven everything."

_Love, Ziva._

He slid his index finger between her palms. He felt calluses and a ragged place where a blister had broken. "I thought I had raised you to survive. I felt like I'd failed you, as I'd failed your brother and your sister and your mother. I was not ashamed of you, Ziva; I was ashamed of myself. I _am_ ashamed."

She jerked her hands away. "Because you can hardly bear to look at me."

"You trusted me again and again I betrayed you every time."

Ziva gave him a steady look. "You are my father."

"A terrible one."

"I do not owe you anything."

Eli nodded. He pushed his cold coffee aside. "I know."

They were quiet. Outside, a crow cawed and was answered. Ziva slid her hands beneath her behind and pushed. She leaned forward, hung her head, worked her shoulders, and sat again.

"Why did you do that?" he asked.

She frowned at him. "Pressure relief. I do not want to get decubiti."

"What?"

"Pressure sores."

"They are a problem?"

She shook her head like he was an idiot. "Of course they are."

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I do not know these things."

"I sit twelve or fourteen hours a day," she said slowly. "Skin breakdown is inevitable."

"You have gotten these sores before?"

"They are unavoidable."

"What do you do for them?"

"Lie face down and wait."

Ziva had never waited for anything in her life. "That must be difficult for you."

She gave a small smile. "Someone usually keeps me company."

_Someone like Liana_. "Does she make you feel better?"

"That is not her job."

"She is a good girl, Ziva."

"She is the child. I am the adult." His gaze flitted to her chair. She noticed. "You are not the first person to question my ability to raise a child."

He sat back, embarrassed. "I did not—"

"You did."

Eli sighed, folded and re-folded his hands. "I never asked about your injuries. I was afraid I would offend you."

"I would not give you more reasons to pity me." He drew back, hurt. She noticed. "I am a C7 quadriplegic, but I function like a T1. On good days, a T2."

"Is today a good day?"

She gave him a small, wan smile. "I have Post-Traumatic Epilepsy with intractable typical and atypical absence seizures. I have the occasional tonic-clonic event. I also have a language disorder called 'aphasia,' which limits my ability to construct complete spoken sentences and ideas, but not my capacity to understand them. I have sensory sensitivities and executive functioning challenges. I forget things. I'm clumsy." She sighed and blinked. Her eyes were hazy, unreadable. "I am not the person you wanted me to become."

Eli looked at her hands, her arms, her thin neck and face. She was skinny: a slip of a thing. A stiff wind would blow her away if not for that wheelchair. And that list of diagnoses-did he know what they meant?

He touched her hand again. "Do you have pain?"

"Yes."

"Every day?"

She was quiet for a long time. Could he hear the wisp of her lashes as she blinked at him, doe-eyed, wary? "Yes."

He sighed, heart tumbling. "I only wanted you to survive, Ziva."

"And then you were surprised when I _did_."

Every single time_._ "And proud."

She scowled at him. "No, you were not."

"I was," he maintained. "I _am_."

"You never said it," she argued, and paused to swallow. Her eyes were wet. "That was all I ever wanted."

Eli was numb, heavy. "You never said anything."

"Punishment would have been swift and severe."

He remembered the _shirr_ of his belt, the whipcrack, her stiff shoulders and downcast eyes. "Do you hate me?"

"I only hated that I could not live up to your expectations."

He exhaled. The room shrunk around him. "You do not hate me."

She shook her head, looking resigned. And weary. "No. But you have lost the privilege of being my father."

He looked at his own folded hands. "I gave it away, Ziva."

She sighed. "The best decision you'd ever made."

"I love the photograph."

Her eyebrow arched. "So you said."

"Liana is beautiful. And so are you." She stilled. He waited, but she maintained her stony silence. "You do not believe me."

Ziva looked away, one thin shoulder raised in a shy half-shrug. "I do not know how."

Eli was a terrible, _terrible_ father.

He got up, pushed in his chair, cleared his throat. "Thank you for allowing me to see you."

She craned her neck to look at him, tucked and tidy in her sleek wheelchair. Was it new? "Thank you...thank you for calling. Thank you for the apologies."

He felt enormous and oafish. "I understand that you cannot accept, but will you allow me to hope that-?"

Ziva exhaled and spun to look at him straight on. "I will allow you to come back. Thanksgiving. It is the last Thursday in November."

An American feast with his American daughter. Eli nodded, startled. Enthusiastic. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

"You cannot stay here."

He nodded and nodded. "I will get a hotel."

He reached for her, but Ziva twirled away. She was quick with that thing. Confident. "You can meet Liana then."

His big, dull heart fluttered. _Love, Ziva_. "She is an amazing child, Ziva, and you are a wonderful mother."

A hint of color rose in her face. She escorted him to the front door and allowed him to kiss her cheek. Eli hesitated, afraid to step out, afraid to break the brittle olive branch she offered. "It feels wrong to walk away now."

Ziva's gaze settled on a robin that hopped about her lush, green lawn. "I am still hurt by the all things you did. I am still angry."

His eyes ached. "Tony, Gibbs, your daughter—they love you, Ziva."

She would not look at him. "Yes."

"They are good to you. Good _for _you."

"Yes."

He was still a terrible father. "Goodbye, my dear."

She looked then, cheeks tear-streaked, chin quivering. "I will see you at Thanksgiving, Papa."

He kissed her cheek, went to his rental car, and turned the key in the ignition. His daughter offered a shy wave from the porch.

_Love, Ziva._


End file.
